Twinpathy
by detectivejigsaw
Summary: Yes, I'm using another cheesy twin-based portmanteau. Deal with it, world! Four times the classic knuckleheads didn't realize they still had a special connection to each other even though they were far apart, and one time they did. Maybe slightly triggering, but nothing too bad, I hope.
1. Chapter 1

**I worked on this late into the night instead of going to bed early because a rabid plot bunny escaped the herd and bit me, so you better dang well appreciate it.**

**Partially inspired by the works of RenConnor of AO3 and ArtsyMeShee of tumblr.**

* * *

The night he was banished from his home and told not to come back without a fortune, Stanley Pines went down to the beach with a can of gasoline that he "liberated" from a nearby station and his trusty lighter, and he set the almost-completed _Stan O'War_ on fire.

There was no way he could take it with him, and he sure as h_ll wasn't leaving it for that traitor to use.

Besides, it wasn't like there was anyone who would care.

It took hours for the flames to finish consuming it; he stood there the whole time, hands clenched in trembling fists at his sides, and forced himself to watch no matter how much it hurt. He barely even flinched when he got hit by stray sparks that burned his skin and made his damp eyes sting, as he watched all his dreams literally go up in smoke.

By the time it was reduced to dying embers it was almost dawn; Stan walked away to his car and curled up in the back seat, feeling more alone than he had in his entire life.

OoOoOoOo

Ford barely slept.

For some reason he was just too hot; even if he kicked off all the blankets and sheets, he felt like he was burning up.

Even if he hadn't been experiencing an odd temperature problem, there was no way he could sleep with the cocktail of rage, betrayal, uncertainty and not-very-well-suppressed guilt brewing in his skull.

His room had never felt so empty before, or been so quiet during the night.

Parts of his skin were actually stinging a little; if he was having a fever, it was like nothing he'd ever had before. Not even cold water seemed to help much, but somehow he couldn't work up the will to wake up his parents. Not after they'd-

He shoved the thought away.

It wasn't until dawn that the heat rushing through his system finally died down a little, but even then Ford couldn't relax enough to sleep. He went to school looking and feeling like hell, and passed it in a dull haze.

A week later, when he went to the beach (he hadn't meant to go near the boat, he'd told himself that he wouldn't, that there was no reason to go near it, but somehow his footsteps took him there anyways), all he found was an enormous chunk of ash.

And his gut churned with that cocktail again, as he realized his brother really wasn't coming back anytime soon.

* * *

Stan was beginning to realize that making that deal with Archer had been a mistake.

Namely because he was chained up and dangling by his ankles in a slaughterhouse, and one of Archer's goons was approaching him with a cleaver in one hand and a meat hook in the other, and it wasn't because he was planning on giving him a fancy haircut.

"It's nothing personal, Pinowski," Archer said solemnly, staring down at him. "I like your moxie; really I do. But it's bad business if I don't make an example of you to anyone else with dumb ideas."

"Yikes," Stan grunted, face red from all the blood rushing to it, "you always talk like you're Edward G. Robinson or something?"

Archer smiled thinly, and nodded to the guy who looked a little too enthusiastic about his grisly task.

By now, though, Stan had managed to put the paperclip he'd been using as a substitute cufflink to good use, and when the thug got close he swung his fist, with the chain wrapped around it. It hurt, but it was worth it to knock him into Archer, sending them both to the floor like ninepins. Frantically Stanley began wriggling like a worm on a hook, trying to reach his ankles before they could get up. Instead he found himself sliding backwards, his body thudding into one of the dead cattle dangling behind him like one of those stupid balls on strings that you can smack two together and the ones at the other end will move-Newton's cradle, that's what Ford had said it was called. Ugh, of all the times for him to be remembering his brother-

He barely managed to dodge the cleaver, which was swung with a vengeance at his neck, and almost on reflex his arms flew up, catching the thug's other wrist. Despite his efforts, the hook pressed stubbornly forward, catching into the flesh of his stomach and digging in. On the bright side, it brought the thug close enough for Stan to pound an unexpected fist into his gut.

Eventually, of course, Stan managed to get away. But not without a somewhat-gaping hole in his stomach, and a need to run quickly before the police and the fire department showed up at the slaughterhouse to find out what the heck was going on. Together, these were not the most pleasant combination in the world.

OoOoOoOo

Far away at a second-rate college, Ford nearly fell out of his desk with a gasp of agony, clutching at his stomach.

At once Fiddleford was at his side, asking frantically what was the matter.

"I-I dunno-something hurts-"

"Have y'got yer appendix removed?"

"No-never had to."

"C'mon, let's get ya to the doctor. Maybe it became inflamed or somethin'." Fiddleford pulled his friend to his feet and slung his free arm over his shoulder, shepherding him out the door.

Surprisingly, the doctor found nothing wrong with his appendix. Nothing seemed to be wrong period, except for the unexplained throbbing sensation. Eventually he just gave Ford some painkillers and sent him back to the dorm to get some rest. Ford speculated on the possibility of it being pain for an injury that he hadn't received yet or something supernatural like that, and gulped down some of the medicine with water so he could get back to work.

(Far away, in a remote field where he'd managed to hide his car until the heat died down, Stan felt the burning ache in his gut miraculously recede a little, even though he hadn't managed to steal painkillers yet. Maybe life was giving him a break from being its chew toy for a while.)

* * *

It had been a long week, and the coming one wasn't looking any better due to impending finals.

Ford couldn't remember the last time he'd slept instead of either studying or drinking copious amounts of coffee. Of course, sleep was a terrible waste of time that he avoided whenever possible anyway, but he had to admit that sometimes it was a necessary evil. If nothing else, because it helped get rid of throbbing headaches like the one filling his skull right now. But dang it, this was important! The sooner he graduated, the sooner he could get into the important research he wanted to study. And he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he got anything but the best possible grades.

Rubbing his gritty eyes under his glasses, Ford made some fresh coffee and forced himself to focus on his notes.

OoOoOoOo

It was the worst hangover Stan could remember having in years. He slumped back against the brick wall behind him, eyes closed, wishing he was dead.

...Which happened more often than he wanted to admit, even without hangovers. But at least this time he had a semi-decent excuse.

He didn't even think he'd drunk that much; certainly not enough to make his skull feel like rocks were rolling around inside it and banging together. Geez, it felt like he hadn't slept in a week.

With a groan, he finally got up, grabbing the hat containing the few coins a few people had dropped in it (he was sure close to making those millions now, ha ha ha), and collapsed into his car. To his relief, he managed to fall into a dreamless sleep fairly quickly.

(Ford began, after a few hours, to feel strangely refreshed; he chalked it up to his body adjusting to an alternative sleep schedule and double-checked his term paper.)

* * *

As Stan got older, he noticed that his body would develop odd aches and pains, especially in his joints, and sometimes he would wake up feeling utterly exhausted, like he'd been boxing in his sleep. It wasn't too surprising, since he hadn't exactly had a peaceful lifestyle in his youth and he was probably paying for it now. He just learned to deal with it all when he got up in the morning, and focused on the important things: fleecing the hides off customers, and trying to figure out that stupid portal.

Nothing else mattered.

OoOoOoOo

Ford didn't have many opportunities to wash properly while traveling through the multiverse, what with constantly hopping dimensions and fighting for his life here and there, but if he'd had a chance to look at his right shoulder, he would have seen that for weeks after he first arrived the skin was bright red, like he'd gotten a bad sunburn. Of course, this being Ford he might have just dismissed it as an allergic reaction to something in his clothes or whatever.

* * *

The _Stan O'War II_ needed fresh supplies. Again.

The Pineses went their separate ways in the busy port marketplace-Ford to pick up scientific gear, and Stan to get food and fishing tackle.

Ford was just fishing his wallet out of his pocket (and really missing the dimensions where currency had been rendered unnecessary), when he gasped and doubled over against the counter, clutching a hand to his cheek.

"Sir?" the shopkeeper asked, looking at him with concern, "Are you alright?"

He managed to nod and straighten up, handing him the cash. "Yes, I'm fine, sorry. Just...a muscle spasm or something."

_That...was odd, even by my standards_, he thought as he gathered up his things and headed for the boat. It was almost like someone had up and punched him (and believe me, by now he knew what that felt like).

Stanley was not back yet, so Ford was about to make himself busy putting things away, when the sensation came again, except it was in his ribs.

And this time, he had an odd feeling that it had something to do with his twin.

It defied all the logic his mind prided so highly, but then again, things like the M Dimension and leprecorns defied logic and they still existed, so he just tucked his gun into its holster and hurried back onto shore.

The throbbing in his side became almost a pulse; like a dark version of "Hot and Cold," it grew stronger as he turned certain directions, leading him to a remote corner of town with a big white van parked nearby-never a good sign.

An even worse sign was the group of men trying to force Stanley into the truck.

To be fair, Stanley appeared to be handling it reasonably well-several of them were lying on the ground, clutching themselves in various areas and groaning, while the ones still standing were sporting a lovely assortment of black eyes and bloody lips, among other injuries. And while he was suffering some wear and tear himself, Stan was still weaving back and forth, using his feet and hands and fingers in ways that were not strictly fighting fair, but were doing the more important job of defending himself and not allowing them to move him any closer to the van.

And then one of them pulled a knife out of his belt.

Ford didn't think twice.

There was a loud fizzing sound, a brief agonized squeal, and then the smell of charred flesh filled the air.

The group of thugs froze, and turned to see Ford marching towards them, outstretched gun still with a puff of smoke at the end just like in the movies.

"What the _bleep_-" one of them began to ask.

"Leave. Now."

None of the six men left standing needed to be told again.

To Ford's slight relief, Stan looked surprised at his vicious conduct, but not appalled by it. He just shook himself, adjusted his glasses and made his way over to his twin, "accidentally" stepping on a few of the people he'd brought down.

"Good timing," he said. "Sorry, I kind of lost the stuff."

"That doesn't matter; we'll get it in another port. Come on."

"Just a sec." Stan turned back to the thugs lying on the ground, and began rifling through their pockets.

Ford rolled his eyes, but trained his gun on any of them who looked like they might be thinking about moving.

* * *

Once they were back on the boat, Stan happily counted their newly-acquired wealth, and began calculating how much they would need to use to restock their lost supplies. Ford put away his gun and then busied himself with setting up what he'd managed to acquire.

"Who were those men?" he finally asked.

Stan shrugged. "They said their boss wanted to see me, but I can't remember who he is. Probably just another in a long list of people I p_ssed off once upon a time." Then he added, "Thanks, by the way." He still didn't seem bothered by what his brother had done.

Ford gave him a small nod. Then he said, "You'd better let me take a look at your ribs."

Stan blinked. "How did you know they're hurt?"

It was Ford's turn to blink. "I-it's how I found you. I...it sounds crazy, but I felt it."

"...You felt my pain."

"Yes, I suppose I did." Ford gestured for him to take his coat off; Stan sighed, but complied and perched on the edge of the table, hiking up his shirt. His entire left side was almost a completely solid bruise, with a few scratches where one of the thugs must have been wearing a ring or something.

"Pretty sure nothing's broken," he said. "It's just gonna hurt like h_ll for a while."

Ford tested the sore places anyway to verify this for himself, as gently as he could get away with, before getting some disinfectant and bandages for the scratches.

He was almost done, when Stanley suddenly reached his hand over and flicked him hard on the ear.

"Ouch!" Ford squawked, ducking his head away. "What was that for?!"

"I wanted to see if it worked both ways," Stan said in a 'duh' tone. He tilted his head, probably waiting for his ear to start hurting too.

"I don't think it works like that," the older twin scolded, rubbing his head.

"How d'you know?"

"I'm just guessing, okay? Now hold still."

"Bossy, bossy."

Just then Ford's eyes fell on a long, pale scar going down the right side of Stan's stomach.

"What's that?"

Stanley glanced at it, and after a long moment he managed to pull some of the memory together, prompted by the sight of the injury. "I...I think I got that a long time ago when...when some guy tried to kill me with a meat hook."

Ford was nursing a memory of his own, of having sudden unexpected pain but the doctor not seeing anything wrong.

_Interesting..._

* * *

**And so Ford has something new to think about on their way to the next anomaly.**

**I know, this cuts off kind of abruptly and has potential for more stories; I have some ideas for other moments, but I am open to suggestions.**

**Galatians 6:2: "Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ."**

**I know, word of God says that the Pines family are originally Jewish, but it kind of fits, okay?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay, I came up with more ideas that I just had to get out.**

**Like many writers, I decided to make Shermie older than the Stan's because it makes more sense mathematically, even though I despite math.**

**Also, I know that it's considered unsafe to put two babies in the same crib, but I doubt the Pineses would have wanted to spend money on another.**

**Final note for now, I wrote this really late at night (again), so don't judge me too harshly, please.**

* * *

Caryn Pines had thought having one baby was difficult.

Compared to twin babies, though, Shermie had been a godsend.

Not to say that she didn't love her little ones, though; pathological liar though she might have been, one thing Caryn was honest about was how much her children meant to her.

The frustrating thing was how...emotional they tended to get, at basically the same time. If one of them started crying, it wouldn't be long before the other one was wailing along in chorus.

Stanley had started it tonight, and had needed to be held and fed for twenty minutes before he was appeased. Surprisingly, Ford hadn't seemed interested in eating when she tried feeding him too, but he was quietly gurgling in his crib now, like all he'd needed was for his brother to be happy. Caryn smiled at the adorable thought, and leaned down over Stanley, who was now lying in her lap for some special mommy-time, letting her hair cascade over his face as her fingers danced over his tiny bare feet.

"Tickle tickle!" she crooned, wiggling them over his toes.

Stanley squirmed, and let out a tiny baby laugh.

And Stanford laughed at the exact same time, from the other side of the room.

Caryn stared in bewilderment for a moment, before she repeated the action. And it happened again; both babies let out high, gurgling laughs.

Caryn picked Stanley up, tucking him into the crook of her arm, and went to check on her other baby.

Stanford was lying in the crib, looking very much like he wanted to sit up and see what was going on out here; he smiled gummily when he saw his mother's face appear above him. She reached down and booped the end of his nose; he wrinkled it at her and giggled, and from her arm Stanley giggled too.

Caryn smiled again, with even more warmth, and carefully put Stanley on the other side of the crib.

"Don't worry, your secret's safe with me," she reassured them. She doubted Filbrick would understand, and besides, this was something special for just the two of them to have.

* * *

Occasionally, there would be these incidents where Ford's telephone would ring, and whoever it was would hang up after he answered.

They didn't happen too often; just often enough for him to notice. Sometimes there would be more than one a week, sometimes it would be months in between calls.

But after about four months of receiving them, Ford noticed something else: that after one of these calls, he always felt an odd burst of...well, melancholy seemed like the best description. For no apparent reason, he would just feel so incredibly sad and crushed, like it hurt that whoever it was calling didn't want to talk to him after all, and he would have to lose himself in his research until the feeling went away.

OoOoOoOo

Stan placed the phone back in its cradle and groaned inwardly.

_Stupid stupid STUPID!_

Of all the people to waste his one phone call on, he had picked the one person he wanted to talk to more than anyone else in the world, but who would have absolutely nothing good to say to him. And then he'd just hung up as soon as he heard his voice, again. Pathetic didn't begin to describe it.

He'd even thought about what he wanted to say this time: _Ford, it's me. Before you get mad, please listen. I've been arrested, and I need your help._

But he couldn't get the words out.

Who was he kidding-he was thinking, what, that after all this time Ford would be suddenly willing to jump into action and give him so much as the time of day?

Stanley quietly followed the guard to his cell, gave his new cellmate his best 'however tough you think you are, I'm a lot tougher, buddy' glare, and didn't say a word for the rest of the night.

* * *

It had all been a lie.

Bill was a monster, and Ford, in his arrogance, had refused to listen to his only other friend's doubts and concerns and had nearly given his 'Muse' exactly what he needed to come here. He'd been taken in by his flattery and promises that he would change the world-oh, the world would be changed all right, by becoming _obliterated_ with chaos!

And unless he could do something to stop the portal from ever being made functional again, it would be all Ford's fault.

OoOoOooo

In the weeks before that postcard arrived, Stan's thoughts were even darker than usual.

He didn't know why, but _that night_ kept popping up in his head-his father hurling him into the street, the door slamming shut, the curtains closing in his face.

The bitter feeling that he'd been betrayed by the one person he'd always thought he could trust, and knowing that it was his own fault didn't make it any better.

The only thing that made it go away was seeing the words "PLEASE COME."

* * *

Stan sat apart from the campfire and stewed.

When he made one horrible, stupid mistake, the world turned him into its chew toy and he lost everything. He had to learn to fend for himself on the streets, and spent years either alone or surrounded by people who only cared about you as long as you gave them exactly what they wanted.

When _Ford_, the golden boy with the extra fingers and a brain the size of a small planet, made a horrible, stupid mistake, the world gasped in horror and immediately flocked to his rescue.

What Stan did didn't matter, he was always the screw-up who got shuffled aside because in the long run, the universe or Fate or whatever the heck it was liked Ford better.

His mood wasn't helped by the fact under his suit he felt..._itchy_ everywhere, like ants were crawling under his skin. Even though he'd sprayed himself with bug repellent like three times already.

Stan sat, with a crowd of people nearby but still totally alone.

Some things never changed.

OoOoOoOo

In the Fearamid, Ford writhed as Bill filled him with electricity for the tenth-maybe eleventh?-time, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood. He wished, again, that he could be allowed the mercy of losing consciousness. Or, if things got any worse, maybe something stronger.

* * *

It helped if he didn't think too hard; if he just let the name of whoever he was talking to flow naturally out of his subconscious, like it had the second the pig-Waddles-jumped on him and started licking him.

He'd lost track of how long they'd been looking at the scrapbook, and the two little gremlins-his family, Dipper and Mabel-were actually on the verge of falling asleep on either side of him-no, there they went now, little heads nestling against his shoulders and snuggling into his chest.

Soos had already fallen asleep, his big warm face pillowed on the armrest, and a small ribbon of drool already sliding down his cheek.

But as tired as he was, Stan couldn't bring himself to join them yet; there was one other person he needed to talk to and identify.

The old guy who'd hugged him out in the forest...Stan didn't know how he knew, but he knew that this had affected him more than the others in some ways. When they'd first reached the shack, all of them looked upset, but he'd looked like he just lost his best friend. And it was almost like Stan could feel the pain himself.

He had some idea about what their relationship was; after all, he'd seen his photo in the scrapbook, seen how closely they resembled each other. But he'd held off on asking any specific questions so far.

The old guy was quieter than the rest of the group as they worked to start refreshing his memory, just standing next to the chair in relative silence, twiddling his thumbs on and off and looking at the scrapbook over Stan's shoulder. The nervousness radiating off him now was making Stan edgy too, and instead of meeting his eyes like he'd meant to he found himself looking down at the guy's hands, clenched together on the back of the chair so hard the knuckles were turning white.

Stan unwrapped his arm from around Mabel, and before he could think about what he was doing he poked the spot where the extra fingers were.

"Cool hands," he said aloud. "You probably make great shadow puppets."

The old guy visibly clenched his teeth down on his lower lip. "You always thought so."

"I believe it, with those six fingers-"

Stan let out a small inadvertent gasp as the words stirred something to life in his memories.

_Six._

_Sixer._

A flood of images, some clearer than others, flashed before his mind's eye. And then, slowly, he raised his hand, palm up, fingers spread.

"High six?"

Sixer-not his real name, but it would do for now-just leaned down and wrapped his arms tightly around Stanley's neck, kind of like he had when he'd first 'woken up' in the forest, except this time he knew to reciprocate.

And it didn't matter whether the happiness both of them felt was shared or just self-generated.

* * *

**Yes, I know the end is kind of schmaltzy, but after the emotional wringer they've been through, the boys deserve it.**

**I hate to be that fanfic writer, but reviews will help Stan recover more quickly.**


End file.
